


Codas: What was and what could be (Season 1)

by featherbow12



Series: Codas [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23677840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherbow12/pseuds/featherbow12
Summary: A series of episode codas, what-ifs, and fix-its inspired by moments we saw on screen, typically with a Merthur twist. Each chapter is based off a different episode and can be read as a standalone story.*Season 1*
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Codas [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880995
Comments: 12
Kudos: 153





	1. 1x02, Valiant

**Author's Note:**

> Father gifts him a gleaming sword for his seventh birthday. It is many, many more birthdays before he’s deemed worthy to wield it.
> 
> Inspired by the pained look on Arthur’s face right after Uther says, “I trust you will make me proud.”

On his seventh birthday, Arthur wakes up to sunny skies and an unfamiliar lump sitting on the table.

He bounds out of bed and loosens the tie around the lump with fumbling fingers, unfolding the cloth cover to reveal a gleaming longsword. The edge of the blade is sharp enough to catch the sunlight and reflect it back into his eyes, and his heart leaps in his chest.

A real sword.

There’s a note pinned beneath the tip, written in the familiar script of Father’s scribe: _Congratulations, my boy. May you one day wield this sword well, with the strength of a warrior and the courage of a Pendragon. Make me proud._

He curls a tentative hand around the hilt with all the courage of a mouse and lifts it gingerly. The metal is cool to the touch as he runs a finger along the broad side, careful not to nick the edge, and Arthur wonders how something so awkwardly long will ever feel like a natural extension of his arm.

Training starts the next morning at the crack of dawn. The training ground is completely empty when he arrives, eyes still half-lidded until Sir Rodrick tosses a wooden stick his way and it slips right through his fingers.

“Focus!” Father snaps from the side of the training field, voice like a whip.

Boys who are seven no longer cry, he reminds himself firmly, blinking to clear the moisture pooling in his eyes. At least now he’s wide awake.

He picks up the stick and shifts his fingers until it feels somewhat comfortable in the palm of his hand. Sir Rodrick merely watches him for a beat, expression inscrutable, before suddenly charging at him full-tilt. Arthur barely has time to blink before he’s flat on his back, stick still gripped uselessly between his fingers.

Sir Rodrick glances over at Father (Arthur refuses to look, doesn’t want to see the reproach on his face) before saying, “Up on your feet now, sire. Again.”

Something throbs between his shoulder blades, but Arthur pictures the gleaming sword hanging on his wall, imagines the _whoosh_ of the blade as he wields it in battle against Camelot’s enemies, and clambers to his feet. _The courage of a Pendragon_ echoes in his ears as he cranes his neck and meets Sir Rodrick’s eyes dead on.

* * *

Arthur enters his first tournament at age 12. Sir Rodrick and even a few Knights he hardly knows by name argue with Father up until the morning of the event, claiming it’s too soon, but the King is insistent. Three men were hung in the square just yesterday—no one is in any rush to undermine the King, and even Sir Rodrick acquiesces eventually.

His opponent, Knight Baltor of Nemeth, is twice his size in height and breadth, and he laughs in delight as Arthur walks slowly into the arena. “Easy pickings!” the man taunts with a sharp grin, and Arthur doesn’t bother disagreeing.

He knows he’ll lose, has known it from the moment Father suggested he participate. Hell, even the mewling babes in the crowd know the outcome of this fight. But Arthur is well aware of what Sir Rodrick wasn’t able to see—the point of this duel has absolutely nothing to do with whose sword is at whose neck by the end of it. He’s not sure what the point _is_ exactly, but it’s not that.

The longsword looks like a toy in Knight Baltor’s enormous hands, but Arthur refuses to let his own shake. Father is watching, after all, and if he’s to ever wield the gleaming sword that’s done little more than adorn his wall since he received it, there’s no room for cowardice.

He lasts an entire fourteen seconds against Knight Baltor just by dodging his strikes (the larger the fighter, the slower, and Knight Baltor is a true boulder of a man), but the first solid blow that Knight Baltor lands knocks Arthur’s sword straight out of his hand and nearly rips his arm off with it as he topples to the dirt.

Pain flares from the top of his shoulder joint all the way down to his wrist. He makes an aborted gesture to move the arm in an effort to stand, but it spikes white-hot and leaves black spots dancing in front of his eyes. Still, the people expect their Prince on his feet, and Father certainly does, so he carefully braces the injured arm against his body and uses his left to push off the ground.

The resulting cheer from the crowd almost makes it worth it.

And if he digs red crescents into his palms in order to keep his expression a carefully curated combination of disappointment and princely dignity, well. That’s his business alone.

The first person he looks for is Sir Rodrick, who’s sitting in the stands to the right of the King’s veranda just as he promised. The Knight gives him a smile and a long blink, as if to say _it’s okay, we’ll train harder tomorrow,_ and the burn of shame in his throat subsides just a little.

He doesn’t risk glancing at Father until the rest of the crowd is sufficiently distracted by Knight Baltor’s victorious roars and posturing. Father is neither smiling nor scowling, merely watching—yet Arthur swears Father’s eyes trail across his cradled arm before meeting his gaze with a faint gleam of approval.

It’s not quite pride, but he figures whatever test this was today, he hasn’t failed.

* * *

After that, he learns. Gods, does he learn.

With little else for a boy his age to do in the citadel, there are many days where he’s at the training ground from dawn to dusk, hacking away at dummies and sparring with other squares until his sword can move exactly as his mind wills it to, barely a breath’s interruption between intent and action.

When Sir Rodrick dies raiding a sorcerer’s hideout (the King executes the entire village as retribution for the loss of one of his best men, but that won’t bring back Arthur’s wisest and kindest teacher), Sir Kay becomes his primary instructor, at least in theory. But Sir Kay’s ambitions to become First Knight frequently overshadow his responsibilities to his squire, and more often than not Arthur finds himself competing against the Council room for his teacher’s attention.

But he knows Father doesn’t accept excuses, only progress, and he knows the gleaming sword on his wall will be no more attainable after a year under Sir Kay than it was for that seven-year-old fumbling with a stick.

So instead Arthur invites every Knight in Camelot’s army to duel with him over the course of the next two years, soaking up their collective knowledge like a flower in the sun, and befriends Geoffrey of Monmouth just from the sheer hours he spends poring over texts on swordsmanship. He learns the discipline it takes to lose his shield without losing his footing, and the strength it takes to truly knock a man to the ground. He learns how to understand an opponent and _anticipate_ their actions, rather than simply react to them.

On a supposedly routine patrol, he learns for the first time what it means to take a human life.

His training is varied, of course, including horseback-riding and mace work and memorizing what feels like every sigil ever carried by man since the dawn of time, but at the end of the day it all comes down to the sword. That’s the measure of a Knight, of a Pendragon, and it might be the only one of Father’s expectations he has half a chance to meet.

 _The strength of a warrior and the courage of a Pendragon._ He learns and learns and the words are a mantra ringing in his ears.

* * *

At 15, Arthur makes it to his first final.

Mercia holds a tournament to celebrate something or the other just as the summer heat starts to die down. The reason isn’t important, only the reward—three thousand gold coins, one of the most generous sums ever offered—and every half-decent Knight in Camelot vies for the opportunity to compete for it.

Father picks him. It’s not the first time he’s represented Camelot in other Kingdoms’ tournaments, but it _is_ the first time he’s been chosen over a host of eager volunteers, and the weight of that responsibility sits like cast-iron on his shoulders.

The first round is a freedom unlike anything he’s ever experienced. Every thought and doubt in his mind clears, replaced by a sort of blank calmness as he assesses his opponent’s every strike and parry and shift of weight. The world melts away, all of it, until there’s nothing but their swords left, and it’s the most _alive_ he’s ever felt.

It’s almost an afterthought when his opponent finally falls to the dirt.

The final, against Sir Rowand of Mercia, is different. He can’t focus, can’t get into the right headspace, the possibility of returning to Camelot a victor now too real to fade away when the duel commences. It buzzes at the back of his mind, growing more and more tangible with every advance he makes on Sir Rowand.

He can see it now, that look in Father’s eyes when he speaks of Morgana—a spark, a fire, like he wants the whole world to know she is his—and imagines, just for a second, what it would be like to be the cause of such pride. It’s nearly within his grasp, now, only Sir Rowand standing in the—

Arthur never even sees the final blow coming.

He returns to Camelot three days later and heads straight to the throne room, knowing there’s no point delaying the inevitable. Several Knights nod in his direction as he walks down the aisle, clearly having heard what happened. He’s glad to see his performance didn’t disappoint them, but there’s only one person whose opinion has ever truly mattered.

“I made it to the final, sire,” he says as a greeting, stopping at the foot of the throne. They’ve never been much for small talk.

Father stares at him for several long moments, and Arthur holds his gaze. He doesn’t cower, not anymore, doesn’t shy away from whatever swirls behind the King’s eyes.

“Did you win?” Father asks simply.

There’s a different kind of desperation that arises from coming so _painfully_ close and still falling short. Maybe that’s what gives him the courage (the stupidity) to try and explain, “Father, I faced Sir Rowand of Mercia in the final. While I—“

“I asked, Arthur, if you won.”

The King knows the answer, of course, but Arthur still swallows and says quietly, “No, sire.”

“Then I believe we have nothing left to discuss.”

The dismissal pierces every defense he constructed on the ride here and lodges itself somewhere deep in his chest.

He tosses the gleaming sword on his wall across the room that night, knowing without having to check that it’ll hardly have gained a scratch, and wishes he was even half as strong as that damned thing. Maybe then he’d feel worthy to wield it.

* * *

Father officially retires from anything to do with physical combat right around the time Arthur wins his first tournament.

He’s sixteen, nearly seventeen, almost a decade of daily training under his belt, when his feet are sure on the ground and the sword balances like a familiar weight in his hand. No longer does he have to look up to meet the eyes of his opponents—sometimes he even looks down at them now, the tip of his sword hovering just above their unguarded throat, before offering a hand to help them to their feet.

It’s a strange feeling, true victory. He’s gotten so used to the cold steel of Father’s disappointment over the years, he hardly knows what to do the first time he comes back a champion with five hundred gold coins in tow and is met with pure elation.

“You’ve made me very proud today, Arthur,” Father says when he hears the news, and calls for a celebratory feast, his eyes lit with joy.

Funnily enough, Arthur feels more relieved than he does happy, like a weight has suddenly lifted from his chest and made it easier to breathe. But he treasures that moment nevertheless, guards it close to his heart, because that’s easier than admitting a decade of his life culminated in little more than a deep breath.

* * *

The gleaming sword comes off his wall sometime after he earns his Knighthood.

Arthur spends a whole week training with it, does his best to get accustomed to the balance and size and weight, but it just doesn’t fit. It’s more Father’s style of blade than his—heavier and broader and a little bit on the short side, a far cry from what the smith would make for him these days, and it feels nearly as awkward in his hand as it did the day he received it.

Still, he makes a point of winning his next tournament with it, if only for every morning he looked up from his bed to see it bathed in sunlight and promised one day he’d wield it like a true swordsman. He can do that now, except when Father nods in approval and claps him on the back after he returns victorious, he’s neither relieved nor happy—merely hollow. He can think only of the _years_ it took to feel worthy of this sword, to cultivate the warrior’s strength and Pendragon’s courage Father asked of him at age seven, and wonders if there was ever a point to it at all.

He’s eighteen, Prince of Camelot, possibly First Knight within the year if his current form continues (there’s no reason to think it won’t, given how much of their coffers are filled with his winnings). An entire childhood spent on the training ground has made it his home, and in large contrast to his younger self, the only time he doesn’t feel a sense of dread anymore is when there’s a sword in his hand and an opponent to beat. It’s the rest of the job—politics, boot-licking, watching a new execution every week—that’s become harder and harder. Even his men respect him, though they aren’t quite _his_ men yet.

It’s more than he could ever ask for, but still not the one thing he’s always wanted—a spark, a fire in Father’s eyes like he wants the whole world to know Arthur Pendragon is his son. It happens sometimes, after a tournament or a successful patrol, but that pride is for someone else—a warrior, a Pendragon. Not him, _Arthur._

And slowly, day by day, he stops believing that’s something he can change.


	2. 1x03, The Mark of Nimueh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Arthur did believe Merlin’s confession that he was a sorcerer, but protected him from Uther anyways? Once the afanc was dead and the dust had settled, maybe this would be the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It always seemed that in the finale, Arthur was angrier about what he saw as Merlin’s lies and betrayal than the magic itself. This is just my take on what might’ve happened if the reveal was so early in their relationship that the actual magic upset Arthur more than the betrayal.

When Merlin enters Arthur’s chambers, the Prince is already awake, dressed, and staring out the window. That’s rare enough as it is, although miracles do happen, except Arthur’s also got his arms looped behind his back the way he only does when deep in thought. And really, it’s far too early in the morning for Arthur to be capable of such higher brain functions.

“You’re up early,” Merlin calls, setting the breakfast tray down on the table. “Didn’t think you _could_ get out of bed without being dragged.”

“I’ll have you know I functioned perfectly well for two decades before you ever arrived in Camelot.”

Merlin has a retort ready at the tip of his tongue before Arthur is even done speaking, but he bites it back. Something’s wrong. There’s no mirth in Arthur’s voice beneath the bravado and snark and general prattishness, and they’ve come far enough since their fateful first meeting that there always is these days. Instead he hears—nothing. His words are detached and toneless, like a body animated to life without a soul.

So instead of a retort, Merlin goes a different route. “Well I’ve brought breakfast in any case. It’s pickled eggs today, your favorite.”

“Just leave it on the table. That’ll be all.”

It’s fine, technically. Arthur gets into these moods sometimes where he wants to be alone, or maybe he just wants to make sure he _can_ still do things without a servant—whatever the cause, it’s not necessarily unusual for Merlin to be dismissed for the morning like this.

But every sense in his body is tingling in alarm, and he hasn’t stayed alive this long by ignoring warnings like that.

“Is everything okay, sire?”

He takes a few tentative steps toward the window, but freezes immediately when Arthur puts a hand up to stop him. “Stay right there.” His voice is sharp as steel.

“Arthur?” A pit of dread starts to grow in his stomach.

With Arthur’s back still to him, he can clearly see the way those broad shoulders stiffen and relax, stiffen and relax, like he’s repeatedly bracing himself to do something before thinking better of it. They stay like that for minutes, the silence hanging in the air thick enough to be suffocating, but Merlin doesn’t dare break it. He knows his boundaries with Arthur, knows when he can afford to push and when insolence would be a fatal mistake.

This is the latter.

Finally, finally, Arthur speaks. “Tell me, Merlin. Do you take me for a complete idiot?”

Any other day, and the response would’ve been _well, sire..._ with a snarky grin, but today the question chills him to his core. He scrambles to think of what brought this on, and what reply will ensure all his limbs stay where they are, but Arthur hardly gives him the chance.

Before he can come up with anything to say, the Prince whirls around, eyes blazing. An icy fist clenches around Merlin’s heart at the expression he sees on the other man’s face—pure _fury_ , held tightly in check but threatening to explode at any second—except his voice is still low and dangerously calm when he continues, “You thought I was a total fool, was that it? The bumbling prince, he’d never suspect anything—“

“Arthur, what are you—“

Arthur continues, like he hardly realizes Merlin is still there, voice now rising with every word. “—because the King, he’s too vigilant, he’d notice a _sorcerer_ under his nose. Arthur though, Arthur’s a bit thick, right, we can use him instead to gain access to the very heart of the Kingdom—WAS THAT IT?”

For once in his life, his mouth deserts him. Merlin’s still stuck on that word, _sorcerer,_ and his chest is so tight he can barely breathe because Arthur _knows_ , must have realized the truth when he confessed it before the Council, and Gaius was right all along. He’ll be a dead servant before dusk.

“Answer. Me.”

This is it then. The words he dies by. “Yes. I have—I have magic.” He pauses long enough to see Arthur’s face crumple in on itself, like he was hoping for a different answer, before plowing ahead. “I was born with it! And I don’t use it like that, like what you said—I’m not here for that.”

“What _are_ you here for then?” Arthur’s hand moves to hover over the hilt of his sword, like he truly thinks Merlin’s a threat, and that _hurts_ a lot more than Merlin expected.

He feels panic rising in his throat, threatening to choke him. He’s not explaining it correctly, not saying the right things, and how ironic is it that an inability to speak will be what ultimately costs him his life? Mother would never believe it.

 _Hunith._ Will she blame herself when she hears the news, he wonders, for sending him to Camelot?

“I’m here because—“ Somehow, it doesn’t feel like the right moment to reveal the existence of dragons and fate and their shared destiny. It would probably get him killed faster, at this point, if he tried to insinuate Arthur had any connection to magic. “I’ve only ever used magic to protect Camelot, protect _you_. _”_

In a flash, Arthur’s sword is at the base of his throat and Merlin’s back hits the wall with a _thud._ “Don’t you _dare_ suggest I’ve ever needed the assistance of sorcery.”

Well. “That first day, when I pushed you away from the knife. I saw it using magic. When Valiant—”

The cool metal of Arthur’s sword presses closer against his throat, silencing him instantly. He thinks fleetingly that he doesn’t want to die like this, at Arthur’s hand.

“So you _did_ use sorcery to earn a place in the royal household! Did you hire the assassin yourself, or was it just dumb luck which you then used for your own plans?”

“No, it wasn’t like that! I just reacted—I didn’t want you to die! I wasn’t trying to—to infiltrate Camelot, that’s not—”

How is it that everything he says is so easily twisted to convey the opposite of his intended meaning? Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but Merlin refuses to let them fall. He won’t spend his last moments a sniveling coward, begging for his life from the very man who’s only even alive because of him. If Arthur won’t listen to him, to what he’s _really_ saying, perhaps they were never meant to share a destiny after all.

When Arthur speaks again, every word drips with poison. “Give me _one_ reason I shouldn’t run you through right now.” There’s nothing but cold intent in those blue eyes, and Merlin doesn’t doubt for a second that Arthur would do it.

He tries again, calmer. “Your father made me your manservant. That was not my doing, and I never asked for it. But as your manservant, I’ve only used magic to protect you. When Valiant’s snakes jumped out of his shield, that was me. I couldn’t let him kill you like that. And yesterday, when the flames of your torch suddenly engulfed the afanc. That was me too.”

Arthur is silent for a long time.

Merlin feels compelled to add, softly, “Magic isn’t inherently good or evil, sire, no more than your sword. It’s just...a tool. Everything depends on how it’s used, and by whom.”

Merlin knows that one sentence is not enough to erase two decades of Uther’s anti-sorcery brainwashing, but he at least owes it to try.

“Twice then.” He must look completely at a loss, because Arthur scowls and elaborates. “Twice you’ve saved my life with no repayment. And I am not in the habit of killing those to whom I owe a debt.”

“You’re not going to kill me?” Merlin hates how small he sounds, how hopeful.

“I saved your skin once, yesterday with my father. Consider this the second time. If I ever see you again, it’ll be as a man who owes you nothing, and I’ll turn you in without a second thought.”

Arthur sheathes his sword and turns away toward the window again, the dismissal clear. A permanent one this time.

Merlin knows this should be a win. It _should_. So then why does it instead feel like he’s lost something irrevocable?

* * *

It only takes him the walk back to Gaius’s chambers to realize he can’t run. He hasn’t been here long, but Camelot is his home now, and Gaius, Gwen—hell, even Morgana—they’re his friends, the only people he cares about outside of Ealdor. There’s no point leaving all that behind just to save his own skin.

(A small part of him thinks he and Arthur could’ve been friends too someday, not the pompous prat Arthur but the one who stood before a fire and accepted that his duty to Camelot was to die, the one who teased him about flowers and then lied to the King about them to save his life. Except it’s too late for that now)

Gaius takes one look at the state of him when he enters through the door, and Merlin can tell he already knows what happened. “You great big _fool_ , Merlin! Did you honestly think the Prince is such an idiot that he wouldn’t see the truth if you marched right up to the Council room and proclaimed it to his face?” Gaius sounds angry.

“I know, Gaius, I know. But what was I supposed to do? They were going to kill Gwen, I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Maybe you _are_ in love with her,” Gaius sighs, but the anger is gone and his tone is more fond than anything else. Then he sobers. “What happened this morning?”

“Arthur knows. He—accused me of trying to infiltrate and destroy Camelot, he wouldn’t listen to reason when I tried to tell him what I’ve really been doing.”

“The boy has spent over twenty years watching the executions of sorcerers and learning that all magic is evil. I can’t believe he didn’t throw you in the dungeons the _moment_ he knew, never mind that he let you go.”

“He said I’d saved his life twice since the—knife thing, so he would repay the debt by saving mine.”

“And now that the debt is paid, he will not protect you any longer,” Gaius finishes, eyes swimming with something suspiciously close to tears. “Well, I suppose we have no choice but to smuggle you out of Camelot then.”

Merlin’s heart swells with warmth. This here, this is exactly why he can’t flee—what would be the point of living as a fugitive, unable to see friends or family, unable to ever return? “I’m not running, Gaius.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you truly are the biggest fool in the Kingdom—Arthur will imprison you on sight, and I’m sure he’s alerted the guards as well! You cannot stay here or you’ll be caught and sentenced to death.”

“Then I’ll be caught and sentenced to death!” The shock is as clear on Gaius’s face as if he slapped the physician, and Merlin rushes to lessen the sting of his words. “I just—where would I even go? I couldn’t go back to Ealdor, it’d be too risky if Arthur ever changed his mind and sent people after me. So I’d have to leave behind everything, go into hiding—what kind of a life would that leave me?”

“It doesn’t matter what _kind_ of life it’d be, the point is that you would at least have a life left to live!”

“You said it yourself—I should already be in the dungeons. But maybe...maybe the fact that I’m not means Arthur hasn’t made up his mind about magic. If I could get through to him—”

“You are not going legalize magic in an afternoon conversation,” Gaius counters.

“No, but I at least have to try, don’t I? Maybe _this_ is my destiny, to show Arthur the truth of magic.” The more he considers it, the more sense it makes. They can hardly be two sides of the same coin if Arthur hates everything the other side stands for. “He’ll never restore magic to its rightful place if the only perspective he hears of it is Uther’s.”

“I fear this destiny may yet kill you before you can fulfill it,” Gaius grumbles, but Merlin hears the acceptance in his voice. “Please do be careful, Merlin, this isn’t worth dying for.”

 _Maybe it is_ , he thinks, and heads back toward Arthur’s chambers.

* * *

“I thought I made clear what would happen if you returned.” Arthur’s sword is drawn and pointed at him as soon as he enters, almost as though the Prince was waiting for him.

Merlin doesn’t have the heart to tell Arthur he can disarm him with two words.

Several moments pass in silence, the only sound in the room the pounding of his pulse between his ears. Then—

“GUA—”

“Wait! Just give me a minute, one minute. Please. After that I swear you can do whatever you want.”

Arthur eyes him warily before gesturing a hesitant _go on_.

“Yesterday, before the Council, you realized I was telling the truth about being a sorcerer.”

“I saw it in your eyes. You’re a terrible liar, always have been—well. Perhaps not. Perhaps that was yet another deception.”

Merlin doesn’t acknowledge the barb. “Why did you say I was in love with Gwen, then?”

Arthur fixes him with an inscrutable look before sighing. “I just—sorcerer or not, I didn’t think you would harm Camelot like that. And if the sorcerer Father was looking for wasn’t you, we needed to find the right one to reverse the plague. He would have stopped looking once you were— _dead_.”

The last word is soft, barely more than a whispered breath, and Merlin finds himself matching the same tone. “You lied for me,” he says, hushed. He vaguely knew that already, there was no other explanation for what happened, but it’s different to hear it confirmed.

Arthur scoffs, looks away. “I repaid a debt.”

“You didn’t even know there was a debt to repay, at the time.”

Arthur’s expression shifts through a complicated series of emotions, too fast for him to pick out anything specific, before ultimately settling on something a lot less angry than it was a minute ago.

Before anyone can speak, however, there’s a knock at the door. “Sire, is everything okay?” a guard calls from outside. “I thought you might’ve called earlier.”

Merlin tenses, but meets Arthur’s eyes squarely and waits. Whatever happens, he’s not running.

“Sire?” the guard asks again when there’s no response, unaware of the battle of wills on the other side of the door.

Finally, his gaze never wavering from Merlin’s, Arthur replies, “I’m fine, Kervin. Not to worry.”

“Of course. Apologies for the interruption, sire.”

Merlin lets out a long breath as he hears the footsteps outside recede. He’s still not quite sure what this means for him, but it’s looking more likely that imminent capture and death isn’t it.

“You didn’t run,” Arthur notes after a moment, sounding almost impressed. “Never took you for the brave type.”

“And I never took you for the forgiving type, but maybe we can both be wrong.”

Arthur just blinks at him for a several seconds before throwing his head back into a laugh, loud and free. It bleeds the tension from the room, and Merlin finds himself smiling in response without quite knowing why.

“I should’ve known from the very first day that you weren’t just another servant. No one else has ever dared to speak to me like you did. What was it you asked me—how long I’d been training to be an arse?”

“A prat, actually, but that wasn’t because of the magic. That’s just me. I’ve never been a good bootlicker.” The laughter drains from Arthur’s face at the mention of magic, but Merlin forges ahead.

“Sire...that’s the thing. I _have_ magic—I never asked for it, never learnt it, I just do—but that doesn’t mean my magic is _all_ I am. I am still your servant, the same lazy, insolent one I was yesterday. I’m still a son, and a physician’s apprentice, and a friend.”

He’s pleased to see Arthur following his every word closely, and tries not to make a mess of it.

“Magic is an ability, the same as your swordsmanship or Gaius’s knack for potions. If one man kills another with a sword, who deserves to be punished for it? That _one_ man who used what he knew to do harm, or _every_ man who wields a sword?”

“But swords can be used for good,” Arthur argues, frowning. “To protect, to defend.”

“So can magic. When Gwen’s father recovered from the plague—it was magic, not a miracle, that made it possible. And I’ve saved your life with it, remember?”

He sees the exact moment it clicks.

Something like clarity settles in Arthur’s eyes and softens the ice in them, melting away the doubt and distrust and anger.

“Will you—will you show me?”

He sounds so hesitant and vulnerable, so uncharacteristically Arthur, that it takes Merlin several seconds to register the words. If he’s asking what Merlin thinks he’s asking...

“Your magic,” Arthur confirms. “ _Good_ magic, as you say. Will you show me?”

It strikes him, suddenly, that the only magic Arthur has ever seen is probably sorcery intended to cause harm. He’s never had cause to see farmers watering their crops or mothers mending clothes or travelers starting a fire in the cold with murmured words and a flash of gold, never seen magic used for simple things by those who mean no harm at all.

Merlin stretches out his hands, not missing the way Arthur flinches just a little, and a ball of light grows between his palms. It shimmers a translucent blue, hovering just out of reach of his fingers, before petal after petal takes shape and unfurls into a shining flower. The flower drifts forward until it floats halfway between them, sparkling in the light of the sun.

He catches the way Arthur watches it, eyes alight with wonder, and feels a warm glow in his chest. “Does this mean you’re not going to turn me in then?” he asks, but already knows the answer.

“Perhaps not yet. But I’m warning you, if I ever have cause to doubt you—”

“Then you’ll give me a fair trial where my actions are the crime, not my magic, just as you would for a swordsman or an archer or any citizen of Camelot. And I’ll accept whatever justice is served.” Merlin smiles at the look on Arthur’s face.

And he receives an answering smile—small, tremulous, but entirely genuine—in response.


	3. 1x04, The Poisoned Chalice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen watches, but does not see. Until she does.
> 
> Inspired by the different ways Gwen and Arthur show their affection for Merlin in the episode.

The Prince is loud and brash and cocky. She watches from the window as he throws knives at a servant, little more than a moving target to him, and wonders why the Pendragons seem to be a long, never-ending line of bullies.

She also watches someone new—Merlin, he introduces himself—stand up to him and maybe, just for a second, put a dent in that royal ego.

Perhaps bullies _can_ be beaten.

Part of her is glad when Merlin becomes the Prince’s manservant. It’s nice to have a friend in the castle who’s quick and funny and sets something ablaze deep in her stomach when the light hits his angled features just right. But part of her is also very sad, because he’ll probably go insane trying to keep up with Arthur’s demands and that’s not a fate she’d ever wish on a friend. There’s a reason the Prince never had a personal servant before.

It’s several months before she realizes how wrong she is.

* * *

Gwen peeks her head out the window at the sound of clanging. Most of the castle is used to ignoring it—given how often the Knights train, silence is more unusual than the screech of metal striking metal—but something about it rings differently in the air today, drawing her attention.

It’s quickly clear why that is. At the far edge of the training ground, Arthur towers over a figure hunched beneath a shield on the ground, shouting what clearly sounds like insults even from this distance away. She can’t make out the individual words, just a general tone of voice that conveys annoyance, impatience, and something else she doesn’t bother putting a finger on, but it’s enough to make her heart clench.

And only more so when she realizes the poor soul being _trained_ is none other than Merlin.

Merlin rises unsteadily to his feet, swaying a little before hefting the shield and catching the sword Arthur throws him. She hopes it’s blunt, but wouldn’t put it past the Prince to use real blades just for a kick.

They go another round and Merlin lasts longer than she expects, but eventually he’s right back on the ground, shield knocked out of his hands and Arthur’s sword at the base of his neck.

“C’mon _Mer_ lin!” she hears Arthur shout, clear as if he was right next to her. Somehow, Merlin doesn’t flinch despite how loud and scathing the words are. In fact he merely clambers to his feet, a sort of goofy grin stretching across his face that makes Gwen’s heart leap in her chest, and braces for the next round.

It goes like that for what feels like _hours_. The other Knights appear to have the day off because nobody disturbs Arthur and Merlin the whole time that Gwen scrubs Lady Morgana’s room, takes her clothes to be washed, neatly tucks in the sheets, hauls warm water for a bath, and refills the flower vases. She keeps one eye on the window the whole while, and it’s a never ending cycle of Arthur winning, berating Merlin for losing, and waiting for him to stand so they can go at it again.

Eventually, when there’s truly nothing left for her to do in the room, she makes a decision.

The training ground feels unfamiliar beneath her feet as she comes to a stop just a few meters from the Prince and his punching bag. They’ve apparently decided to take a break in the time it took her to descend the steps from Lady Morgana’s room, but it’s no matter. This is as much for herself as it is for Merlin, who showed her that bullies can be defeated if they are challenged, and she‘ll challenge Arthur for him now, when he cannot.

“Sire, surely we can take a break now? It’s been hours,” she hears Merlin ask before she’s close enough to be noticed, and stops. It isn’t his words that give her pause but his tone—he sounds altogether too happy for someone who’s been beaten into the dirt since sunup, and she worries that perhaps the fiery spirit that dared defy the Prince for a servant has broken with just a few months in Arthur’s employ after all.

“Why, are you tired Merlin?” There’s a laugh in Arthur’s voice that sounds almost foreign. She expected to hear disdain, not this sort of _mirth_. “Perhaps you would like one of the maids to rub oil on your aching muscles?”

“That’d be great, actually,” Merlin tosses back, calm as a spring breeze. Her heart clenches in fear. “While they’re at it, I’d love a warm bath and a meal as well.”

“I’m sure you would,” Arthur scoffs. There’s the scorn she’s used to hearing. “Lucky for all of us, I’m the one who gives the orders here.”

Before Arthur can reveal what those orders might be, Gwen steps forward and clears her throat. “Sire, if I may interrupt.”

“Guinevere.” Arthur seems surprised to see her, but her eyes are drawn to Merlin, who looks, if she didn’t know better—almost annoyed.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt, sire. I’m here because...I’m here to say that—that—Gaius has requested Merlin’s presence immediately.” The lie doesn’t spill from her lips _easily_ per se, but it’s certainly made easier knowing Merlin will be out of harm’s way for it.

“I thought he was out gathering herbs,” Merlin frowns, searching her gaze.

She tries not to waver, reminding herself that Arthur is watching too.

“Oh?” Can’t Merlin see what she’s doing? _Go along with it_ , she pleads. “I don’t know anything about that—I guess he must’ve come back early? It just—seemed urgent, Merlin.”

Merlin glances toward Arthur, who nods and waves his hand in a rough approximation of _yeah fine, go_ and _I don’t like being interrupted_ combined, a talent Gwen grudgingly admires. Petulance certainly has its uses, and Arthur has it down to a fine art.

“Right, come on then,” Merlin says, and they start towards Gaius’s chambers.

She glances back for just a moment, and would be lying if she claimed there wasn’t the slightest sense of satisfaction watching Arthur trek slowly in the opposite direction toward the armory, Merlin’s shield and sword slung over his shoulders.

The moment they’re off the training ground, Merlin stops walking abruptly. She nearly bumps into him but stops just in time, inches from the back of his shirt.

“Is everything okay, Gwen?” he asks, whirling around.

They’re close, must be too close, because Merlin takes several steps back and his cheeks flush red. “Gwen. I know Gaius isn’t back yet, he always loses track of time and takes forever whenever he goes, so—what’s going on? Is he okay? Are you okay?”

“What?” Gwen can hardly believe it. “Yes, yes, everyone’s fine, I didn’t mean to worry you! He was going at you for hours, I just—thought you might want a break, that’s all.”

When Merlin smiles at her, big and blinding, her heart takes a funny little leap in her chest. “Thanks,” he says, earnest, but there’s something else there, something hesitant behind his eyes that screams he isn’t altogether pleased with having been dragged away.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted something,” she offers haltingly, and tries to come up with a single reason why Merlin would be disappointed at the turn of events. No matter how hard she thinks, it comes back to the same fear—Arthur got to him. Broke him.

Merlin levels her with an intense, searching look before saying, “I appreciate it, I really do, but you don’t have to worry about me. I can handle Arthur just fine.”

“I’m not saying you can’t, I didn’t mean it like that,” she says in a rush, because that’s really not it. Still... “Surely you could’ve said something then? Even the Knights don’t spend hours at a time training, against _Arthur_ of all people.”

Gwen has heard enough stories between Knights coming to her father to request a new sword (“He damn near cut it clean in half, Arthur did”) and lending Gaius a hand with patients (“Be glad you’ve only got to _mend_ my arm, Gaius, and not reattach it”) to know that for all his faults, there are few swordsmen in Camelot who can hold a candle to the Prince. Or last several bouts against him without some sort of injury.

And Merlin is certainly not one of them.

“I was just worried you were going to get hurt.”

If anything, that appears to be the wrong thing to say. Merlin’s expression darkens, and his voice is low and tight when he replies, “Arthur’s a spoilt, arrogant prat, that’s for sure, but you have to know he’d never hurt me. Not like that.”

She thinks back to Arthur throwing knives at a servant for amusement and finds that declaration hard to believe.

“Well anyway—“ Merlin’s tone softens until he sounds as he always does—kind, innocent, a little lost. “Gaius probably will be back soon, now that I think about it, so if there isn’t anything else—“

“No, um, no that’s all.” She manages a smile before he disappears toward Gaius’s chambers, but her heart pounds furiously in her chest as she watches him leave.

Arthur got to him. That’s the only explanation for Merlin’s newfound loyalty and she hates it with every fiber of her being, because he deserves better than to be Arthur’s puppet.

* * *

After using every excuse she can think of to get close to Arthur’s chambers that evening, she’s lucky enough to be loitering right outside when the conversation of interest starts.

“What—Gaius—help with?” she hears through the door, unable to make out more than a few words. With a furtive glance around to make sure nobody is here to see, she learns forward and presses her ear to the paneled wood.

“Oh, it was nothing, he just needed me to help sort some herbs.” Even through the wall, she hears the way Merlin’s voice hikes up half an octave and winces.

“Merlin—are you lying to me? For a second there, you sounded as squeaky as a girl!”

“No! I’m not—well, not about anything important.” There’s a long pause during which she holds her breath, waiting for Arthur to force the truth out of Merlin and then come looking for her head, but the silence merely stretches on, broken only by the faint scraping of a chair against the floor.

All of a sudden, she feels very, very dirty. Standing outside the door like a spy, listening in on a private conversation—it’s so far from how she was raised that something roils unpleasantly in her stomach at the thought. But—

She’s here for Merlin, to understand what’s going on between him and Arthur when there’s no one around to serve as a buffer, so that maybe she can find the right words to bring back the Merlin who captivated her all those months ago. The Merlin who had more spine standing in the stocks covered in tomato juice than half the Knights she’s ever met.

And that’s far more important than any social niceties could be.

Gwen directs her attention back to the conversation just in time to hear, “Have you eaten?”

At least, that’s what it sounds like, although it could just as easily be _you’ve been beaten_ , which would probably be more in character for Arthur. That must be it.

Except then Merlin replies with a testy, “Why, are you offering?” like he knows it’s too good to be true—

To which Arthur shoots back a sharp, “And if I was?” like a challenge—

Prompting a wary, “Why would you do that?” from Merlin—

Ultimately leading to Arthur’s, “Well this slop is disgusting, but I’d hate to see it go to waste” except there’s no real disgust or scorn in his voice—

And she realizes with sudden, blinding clarity—that’s Arthur, sharing food with his servant; that’s Merlin, accepting food from the Prince; and this is her, Guinevere, more confused than she’s ever been in her life.

* * *

“Merlin!” groans a familiar voice from inside the armory, and Gwen nearly drops the bag in her arms. The newly crafted helmets inside jostle unhappily, clanging and banging into each other before settling down again.

“What now, Arthur?”

It’s been several days since the last training, and she’s been too busy with duties for Lady Morgana and her father to even think about Merlin or Arthur. But this, this might be a chance to pick up where she left off.

Gwen presses herself against the corridor wall and peeks around the corner into the armory to see Arthur standing in his standard chainmail and armor, a helmet in his hands. He turns it from side to side as if examining the quality, before shaking his head and dropping it unceremoniously to the floor.

A little spark of annoyance flares in her chest on her father’s behalf, but she tamps it down to focus on what they’re saying.

“—with this helmet. Look at it, it’s rusted all along the bolts at the top. One solid blow and it’ll crumple in on your head.” After a brief pause, Arthur’s expression shifts into a little smirk. “Although that might be an improvement for your looks, actually.”

“Oi! I’d rather not take that risk, thanks.”

The smirk is gone as quick as it came. “Me neither.” Before she has time to figure out what exactly the somber note in Arthur’s voice means, he walks over to a table covered in every manner of helmets and eyes it critically.

She knows what he’ll find. There’s a reason Dad sent her here with a bag full of new helmets.

Sure enough, Arthur grunts derisively. “All of these are two well-aimed blows from falling apart.”

“We could just skip training?” Merlin offers half-heartedly, but holds up his hands in immediate surrender when Arthur shoots him a scowl.

That’s her cue. Gwen hefts the bag and is just about to step into the entrance when—

“Alright, take mine.”

Her eyes widen impossibly, and she slips back into the concealment of the corridor. If there’s one thing she’s learned from being around Knights her whole life, it’s that they are almost laughably territorial about their armor. A misplaced gauntlet or helmet has left more than one Knight pleading with her father to make a new, identical one, claiming none of the communal replacements fit quite right.

To see Arthur so easily offer to share his helmet with Merlin...it’s a bit like with the food, leaving her questioning everything she thinks she knows about the Prince and his manservant.

“It might not fit you properly, but—“

“Well my head’s not as big as yours, is it?” Merlin grins, wide and free in a way that always makes her heart skip a beat, before tucking the helmet in the crook of his arm the way Knights do. “But I’m sure we’ll make do.”

Arthur merely huffs before reaching over to the rack where all the blunt swords are kept. He tosses one of the swords at Merlin, who catches it cleanly at the hilt, before sliding the other one into his sword belt.

“What about you?” Merlin asks, grabbing a black-and-gold Pendragon shield from the pile on a nearby table.

“The day I need a helmet against you, Merlin, is the day I hang up my armor and run away from Camelot.”

“Then they’ll have a feast in my honor. ‘The servant who saved Camelot from a prat.’”

“Learn something today, and _I’ll_ throw a feast in your honor. I’ll even let you wear the official ceremonial robes of the—“

“ _Let_ me? I wouldn’t do it if you _begged_ me!” They walk out of the armory and past her with little more than twin smiles of acknowledgement, too wrapped up in deciding the details of this feast in Merlin’s honor. “That was possibly the most _hideous_...”

They move too far away for her to make out the rest of the conversation, but she doesn’t bother following.

Their behavior is just as much an enigma now as it was a few days ago, maybe even more so, and there’s only one person she knows who might be able to shed some clarity on it all.

* * *

“What do you mean, Gwen?” Gaius’s hands still over the book on the table as he looks up, clearly puzzled. “Merlin is Arthur’s manservant. It’s his job to obey the Prince.”

She rubs the heel of her hand over her eyes, trying to gather the right words. “No, I know that. I do. But if he’s in danger of getting hurt or _worse_ from obeying, isn’t he allowed to say something?”

Gaius closes the book with a frown, the force of the ensuing _thud_ echoing in the room, and she remembers that he’s as protective of Merlin as anyone she’s met. “Well of course he is! And I can’t imagine that Merlin wouldn’t. The mouth on that boy...”

Gwen cracks a smile before continuing. “Then how do you explain all the— _training_ they’ve been doing? Arthur went at him for _hours_ a few days ago, and I’m sure he plans to do the same today. Why isn’t Merlin putting a stop to it? Gaius, I’m scared that—“

“My dear Gwen,” Gaius interrupts her, somehow managing to be polite about it in the way only he can. “If you want a real answer, you’ll have to ask Merlin. After all, he doesn’t tell me everything and I cannot read his mind. But do you want to know what _I_ think?”

“Of course.” Besides Dad, she trusts Gaius more than anyone.

“A week ago, the Prince went on a hunt with Merlin and a few Knights in tow. They were attacked by bandits while returning to the castle, and from what I’ve been able to get out of Merlin, he was a hair’s breadth from the point of a sword when Arthur saved his life.”

Her eyes widen. She didn’t hear about this. “But—the bandits were defeated, weren’t they?”

“Of course. They were no match for five Knights of Camelot. But I dare say Arthur became very worried that even common bandits could be more than a match for his manservant.”

The realization dawns sharp and bright. “That’s why Arthur’s been training him, then?”

Gaius makes a noise of assent before reopening the book he was referencing earlier, eyes still on hers. “I don’t believe Arthur is trying to hurt Merlin with these _trainings_ , as you call them. Perhaps he merely wants to make sure that the next time a bandit attacks, Merlin can do more than cower in fear.”

She watches in silence as he looks down and thumbs through several pages of the book, muttering to himself, before stopping halfway through with a pleased smile.

“I’m sorry,” she says, remembering how Merlin looked annoyed when she interrupted them that day, how Arthur gave Merlin his own helmet for protection just a few minutes ago. The pieces fall together. “I didn’t know. I just—I was just worried about him.”

Gaius only smiles. “There’s no need to apologize, Gwen. I’m very glad Merlin has people who care about him. But...is it so hard to believe Arthur might be among them?”

“Yes!” she laughs, because it _is_ hard to believe, but if what Gaius says is true...

A weight she hardly realized was there disappears from her shoulders, leaving behind a sort of feather-lightness and a sense of deep, gasping relief.

All this time, she worried whether Arthur got to Merlin and somehow broke his fiery spirit, but it’s clear now that she’s had it wrong— _Merlin_ , with his smart mouth and stubborn streak and kind eyes, fiery spirit intact, got to _Arthur._

And maybe, just maybe, that means there’s hope for the Pendragons to be more than a line of bullies after all.


	4. 1x05, Lancelot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin knows Arthur, in more ways than one and probably better than anybody else in Albion. Most people tend to be surprised they’re even acquainted.
> 
> Inspired by Lancelot’s incredulous, “You know Arthur?” and Merlin’s extremely cute, “Ohh yes,” in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in an AU with established Merthur where Arthur knows about Merlin’s magic

Merlin wakes to the sting of cold water across his face.

He squints, blinking droplets out of his eyes in time to see the flash of a silver bucket just before it’s tipped over his head. Water runs in rivers down the sides of his face and the back of his neck, completely soaking his tunic and leaving behind a chill that reaches all the way to his bones.

It doesn’t help that the cell is already freezing.

“Wakey, wakey!” a harsh voice sing-songs. He sees a pair of gloved hands approaching with another bucket and closes his eyes, bracing for the—

Cold. Cold cold cold cold cold. The chill bites at his skin like a thousand ice daggers, but he grits his teeth and refuses to show weakness. If there’s one thing he’s learned from watching Arthur lead the Knights through captivity training over the years, it’s that squealing like a pig is the most surefire way to get yourself killed.

The more resolutely you resist, after all, the more important information they think you have, and that makes you all the more likely to see another sunrise. It _also_ means they’ll torture you in more imaginative ways for those secrets, but Merlin tries not to focus on that.

Instead, he takes stock of the current situation.

His hands are chained behind his back such that each palm cups the opposite elbow, explaining the dull ache in his shoulders. A little wiggle confirms that the chains are tightly fastened, too tight to slip out of, and an experimental pull for his magic confirms they are indeed made of iron. Every limb is numb from cold, but it’s the distinct hollowness inside where his magic should be, warm and humming with energy, that leaves him feeling empty.

Using iron chains has long since become common practice, even though the chance of inadvertently capturing a sorcerer is slim to none these days. Merlin hopes that’s all this is—a precaution, and not a sign that his captor knows exactly what he can do.

“What’s your name then, pretty boy?” His captor finally comes into view. A tall, beefy man, with a frame larger than even Percival’s, he entirely obscures the candlelight coming from the corridor as he leans over Merlin.

It leaves his face shrouded in shadow, although Merlin privately thinks that’s for the best if the rancor of the man’s breath is any measure of his general visage.

He suppresses a shiver—and a shudder—to look his captor straight in the eye. With any luck, the frantic pounding of his heart isn’t actually as loud as it sounds to his own ears. There’s not a chance in hell he’s telling this man his name if he doesn’t already know it. He’s nowhere near as well-known as Arthur, but tales of the Prince’s manservant have reportedly spread beyond Camelot if Gwaine’s taunts are to be believed. If his captor has heard of ‘Merlin’ and Merlin’s close connection to the Pendragons...he shudders to imagine what might happen.

No, better he’s thought of as just another servant.

That being said, part of him wants to spit out a fake name just to not have to hear that epithet in his captor’s grating voice. _Pretty boy._ The threat veiled behind the words makes his skin scrawl.

“You _do_ have a name, don’t you? Or is that what they do in _Camelot”—_ the man spits out the word like it’s something particularly foul—“to servants? Strip your name and identity, turn you into nothing more than obedient little slaves?” After a brief pause, his captor grunts and mutters to himself, “Or maybe they cut out your tongues too.”

The corner of Merlin’s mouth twitches involuntarily at what Arthur would say to that (“You, obedient and silent? I’ll have to send your captor a gift!”), and something clenches in his chest at the thought of never hearing that cocksure drawl again.

 _No._ Iron chains be damned, he’ll find a way to burn this whole place down to ash before he lets that happen.

“Something funny?” the man asks— _snarls,_ a fire in his eyes that screams _I can make this painful very quickly._

Merlin figures being absolutely mute does little to improve his survival chances, so he drops his eyes and mumbles, “No.”

His captor grins, the flash of jagged teeth stark in the candlelight. “The boy speaks! That’s good. I was worried you weren’t going to be much use at all, and I’d hate to have to kill you so soon.”

Being right isn’t much fun, he realizes, when being wrong is the difference between life and death.

“Well, my name’s Bodran,” the man continues, casual as you please like he’s discussing the weather and not about to torture Merlin within an inch of his life. Bodran eyes him for several long moments, clearly waiting for a name in return, before shrugging. “Pretty boy’ll do just fine. Do you know why you’re here, _pretty boy_?”

He has a few guesses. Bodran’s accent drips with the languid flourish of a Cornwall native, as does the cut and color of his armor, while his size, musculature, and general unpleasantness speak of someone accustomed to doing dirty work like this. Merlin figures either Odin paid the man to capture him, or Bodran independently took the initiative to capture him hoping to get rich off a ransom, either from Odin or maybe even Arthur.

Regardless of the details, Merlin knows this much—if Odin sees him, he’s a dead man. The King of Cornwall knows exactly who he is, and wouldn’t hesitate for a second to send Arthur his severed head as revenge for the King’s slain son.

Instead of saying any of that, however, Merlin merely shakes his head and waits to be told. There’s no point letting them think he’s smart. No one ever expects a servant to be smart, and that gives him all the better chance to escape.

It’s a delicate balance to achieve—showing enough resistance to incite his captor’s interest, yet remaining meek enough not to provoke his anger—but Merlin has seen enough people attempt to toe a similar line in front of Uther that he knows something of what to do.

“Let’s keep this simple,” Bodran says. “You’re going to tell me everything about Camelot’s layout, guard rotations, weaknesses, secret passages...tell me everything you know, and I’ll kill you quick.”

Merlin blinks. There’s certainly something to be said about such a direct approach. “Or?” he asks, dread forming a lump in his gut. His voice remains steady, but only just.

Bodran laughs in response, a deep sort of belly-laugh that would remind him of Arthur if not for the spite in every cackle. “Or I’ll kill you slow, and you’ll feel pain like you’ve never dreamt possible.”

He doesn’t doubt it.

He also doesn’t doubt, any longer, that Odin paid Bodran to gather information in order to mount an attack on Camelot, one that neither Arthur nor Uther know is coming.

“What makes you think I know anything?” he asks, more to stall than anything else.

Arthur is coming for him—he’s sure of it the way he’s sure that the sun sets in the west and his eyes are blue and Gaius has never met a potion he can’t brew—but until then, or until he figures a way out of these chains, he needs _time_.

Bodran laughs again. Merlin decides he hates it. “Servants always know these things. The best way to sneak out without the masters knowing, the position of every room to the next lest the laundry be left in the wrong chambers, the guards on late night sentry duty who can be counted on for gossip of the master’s mistress sneaking out.” He wonders if Bodran was a servant too, once, given the disdain with which his lips curl around the word _master_ and the uncanny ease of his knowledge about servitude. _“_ I know you know what I ask.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything,” he says, and there’s no need to fake steadiness this time because it’s true. No amount of pain could ever make him give up information that would sentence Gaius, Gwen, _Arthur_ to death at Odin’s hands.

Bodran grins. It’s almost worse than his laugh. “We’ll see about that, pretty boy.”

A dirty rag is stuffed into his mouth, and he hardly has time to draw breath before the pain starts.

And doesn’t stop.

And doesn’t stop.

And doesn’t stop.

And—

There’s a faint, distant _boom_ , like a door rattling off its hinges.

Bodran freezes, fist hovering in mid-air, and a spark of hope flares in Merlin’s heart. He has no idea how long he’s been in the cell—a day, maybe, or perhaps no more than a few hours, but it might just have been enough time for Arthur to find him.

“ _MER_ LIN!”

Merlin can’t feel half his face, but his lips automatically twist into a smile around the rag _._

 _“_ Where are you? I swear if you’re not here—Merlin!”

Of course Arthur would still sound exactly that obnoxious while breaking into a mercenary’s private dungeon.

“Who in the devil’s name is that?” Bodran’s eyes blaze with fury, but there’s genuine fear there.

Good.

Something cruel twists in his gut, and he watches Bodran’s face closely, not wanting to miss the man’s reaction when he finally realizes who’s come for him.

Except he doesn’t have time for that, because somebody crashes unceremoniously into the door of the cell—a guard, by the looks of it, his face pressed up against the bars by none other than Prince Arthur himself—and a series of things happen all at once, too quickly for his sluggish mind to follow each step.

“Open it!” Arthur commands in his best, most imposing Uther voice, the one that brooks no room for disobedience, and that’s the last clear thing he remembers.

Then Bodran lunges for his sword, which is leaned against the far wall instead of dangling at his side—rookie mistake, something Arthur would never forgive of his own Knights. The cell door bursts open, leaving the guard smushed up against it to fall flat on his face. And somehow, between one blink and the next, Leon is holding a cursing Bodran at swordpoint, Percival has four guards writhing on the ground outside the cell, Gwaine is unlocking the iron chains binding his wrists, and Arthur stands in front of him.

“You just had to let him beat you to a bloody pulp, didn’t you, Merlin,” Arthur scoffs, crouching so their eyes meet, and Merlin can _feel_ the way Gwaine immediately stiffens in the middle of tugging off the cuffs behind him.

He appreciates the outrage on his behalf, but knows it’s entirely unnecessary because Merlin doesn’t need pretty words _—_ Arthur’s hands are infinitely gentle when he pulls out the rag, and Merlin can read the truth in the set of his jaw and the curl of his lips. This is just what they do, the veiled insults and scathing remarks, this is why they _work_.

“Figured you’d have to give me a day off, then,” he grins, rubbing his now-free wrists. Pain flares in his shoulders, but it’s trumped by the sheer warmth of his magic slotting back into place, humming happily beneath his skin like it never left.

Gwaine snorts.

When Arthur laughs, it sounds more like a strangled sob.

“You! You’re—you’re Prince Arthur!”

Right. Bodran.

His captor’s hands are bound and Leon looks about a second away from just killing the man, but it’s the utter incredulity on his face that brings Merlin the most vindictive joy.

“I am,” Arthur agrees, voice like chilled ice. Merlin briefly shudders at the thought of what horrors will await Bodran back in Camelot.

Then every muscle hurts at the slight movement, and he can’t find it in himself to care.

“But you—you’re a _servant_!” Bodran seethes, struggling futilely against Leon’s vice grip on his arm. “What kind of servant knows the Crown Prince of Camelot? And gets rescued by him, at that!”

Before Arthur can do anything foolish like run Bodran though with his sword, Merlin clambers to his feet. His legs shake and something burns like fire between his ribs, but it feels good to stare Bodran down at eye-level and watch him cower before his gaze, enough that he hardly notices the pain.

He thinks back to some of their first months as master-and-manservant, when Arthur defied Uther to go after the mortaeus flower and drank poison by the shore to save his life, and knows they were never really _just_ master and manservant, even before he started spending his nights in Arthur’s bed and his days in his heart.

But he merely smiles at Bodran’s livid face, reaches out a hand to entwine his fingers with Arthur’s, and lets that be answer enough.

It’s a risky admission, given the secrecy they live by, but well worth the way Bodran can only splutter in response, half-formed syllables stumbling from his lips until Gwaine takes pity on them all and slaps him across the face. Either from the shock of the blow or the pure pain of it, that shuts him up immediately.

In any case, Merlin doubts the man will live long enough to tell anyone. Uther never lets crimes against Camelot go unpunished.

Leon leads Bodran out with a shove, pausing only to cast a meaningful glance around the cell that has all the Knights scampering after him with murmured excuses. The moment the last of the footsteps fade away in the corridor, Arthur sags beside him like a puppet with its strings cut, and Merlin makes a mental note to send Leon some sort of gift. Nothing gets past him, not least when it comes to Arthur.

When he turns, Arthur’s eyes are already on him, a dark, scorching blue. “You’re okay,” he says— _demands_ , like it’s an order as easy as _muck out the stables_ or _polish my armor_ , but Merlin hears the unvoiced question all the same.

“I _am_ okay, Arthur. Really, it looks a lot worse than it is.” In all honesty, Merlin knows it’s probably exactly as bad as it looks, but still nothing Gaius can’t fix with some bedrest and a few tongue-curdling concoctions. “Just never call me pretty boy, and we’ll be completely fine.”

It’s meant as a joke, but he regrets it the moment the words leave his lips because that sounds too much like—

Arthur freezes, expression twisting into something like abject despair, and his fingers immediately slip from Merlin’s. “Did he—tell me he didn’t— _Merlin_ ,” he breathes out finally, voice ragged with fear. “Please tell me he didn’t...”

—that.

“ _No_.” He reaches out and takes Arthur’s hand again, squeezing firmly despite the ache in his fingers. “No, he didn’t. _Arthur_. I wouldn’t tell him my name, so he just had to come up with something, that’s all.”

The dread drains out of Arthur as quick as it came. “Gods above,” he sighs, squeezing back. “Let’s just—let’s just get you home to Camelot.”

That’s when Merlin remembers.

“Arthur, wait—I think Odin’s planning to attack the citadel. That’s what Bodran wanted to know—castle details, secrets, protections. You have to get a message to your father, warn him that there’s going to be an attack!”

Arthur merely hums in response and lopes an arm around his shoulders. “Can you walk?”

“Yes, yes, I can walk, but—Arthur, _sire_ , did you hear me? There’s going to be an attack!” He thinks of Camelot burning, the walls of the castle crumbling, Gaius being thrown in a cell, and a shiver crawls down his spine that has nothing to do with how cold it still is. “We need to do something!”

“I heard you, _Mer_ lin. And I’ll deal with it when we’re back in Camelot.”

He manages to take a few steps forward, leaning almost entirely on Arthur’s steady frame for support, before finding his voice again. “Why aren’t you more worried?”

“Honestly, when will you learn to stop questioning me?” Arthur snaps, but there’s no heat behind it. This, too, is a game, a familiar one, and Merlin simply puts one foot in front of the other and waits for Arthur answer the question. “If Odin indeed plans to attack, he will not do so before hearing from your captor.”

“Bodran.”

Arthur shoots him a huffy look at the interruption. “It will take him days, perhaps longer, to realize than Bodran is indisposed and attempt to act without his information, by which time we will certainly have reached Camelot.”

“Ah.” That actually makes perfect sense. Merlin blames his slow comprehension on the fact that every part of his body feels like it’s on fire.

“Indeed. Tell me, Merlin, will there ever come a time when I don’t have to spell everything out for you? I thought warlocks were supposed to be wise.” The smile in Arthur’s voice is clear as day.

Merlin laughs and doesn’t even care that it makes his lungs burn like they’re being repeatedly stabbed with a knife.

* * *

The sun beats down mercilessly as he raps his knuckles against the door. Sweat beads against the back of his neck, as hot and sticky as the surrounding air, and he shifts on the step, desperate for some shade.

“Merlin!” Gwen opens the door with a smile. “Come in, come in, you’re just the person we need.”

Gwen’s home is blessedly cool, all the windows covered by cloth to keep the sun out and achieve some semblance of a livable temperature, but what catches his eye immediately upon stepping over the threshold is the woman hunched over the table with two kids clinging onto her skirts.

“Erm—hello,” he says, taken aback. The woman’s face is shrouded in shadow, but her clothes clearly mark her as a townsperson.

It also doesn’t escape his notice that all three of them are wearing black.

“Dorothea, this is my friend Merlin,” Gwen says.

The woman—Dorothea—looks up, and the sliver of sunlight slipping through the curtained window illuminates the remnants of tear tracks on her cheeks. She manages a strained smile, though Merlin sees the way the corners of her lips tremble.

“Merlin, this is Dorothea. She’s good friend of my family and...just recently lost her husband, Drew.”

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” he says, hating how inadequate it sounds.

“Thank you.” Her murmured gratitude is rote and mechanical, the way servants say _sire_ or Knights say _m’lady_ , and that more than anything breaks his heart.

For a brief moment he tries to imagine what he would be like if Arthur died, but the image his mind conjures up is so harrowing that he forcibly pushes it away and lets out a shaky breath. It’s not a reality he wants to dwell on.

A long, awkward pause follows, during which Merlin glances repeatedly at Gwen with furrowed brows, hoping his expression conveys a suitable confusion without coming across as rude. Because he _does_ want to help Dorothea, however he can, and that must be why Gwen called him here—it’s just that he has no idea what she has in mind.

Gwen seems to get the hint. “Dorothea, would you—will you tell Merlin what you told me?”

“Gwen—“ Dorothea starts, then cuts off and fixes him with an inscrutable look. After several moments, she asks, “Are you sure that’s necessary?”

“I asked Merlin to come because I really think he could help,” Gwen says. “Please—I’m so sorry to make you have to go through it again, but—please trust me.”

Dorothea smooths down the unruly curls of one of her children—a boy, he guesses a few years older than his little sister by the difference in their heights—and hefts the other into her arms before speaking. “As Gwen said, my husband recently passed. There was a fire, in the forge, and he took in too much smoke before it was doused.” Her voice is bare, stripped of all emotion. “Tom used to run the forge with Drew, but after Tom’s—death, my husband took over. Now...the forge will have to close for good, and with it goes my family’s entire means of survival.”

“How can I help?” he asks immediately, eyes flicking over to Gwen. She appears visibly pained, as though remembering the circumstances of her father’s death, but steels herself with a firm nod.

He watches as Gwen and Dorothea exchange long looks, holding an entire unspoken conversation the way only lifelong friends can, and it strikes him that all things considered, Dorothea doesn’t look much older than Gwen. Grief and stress have clearly added bags under her eyes and a stooping weight to her posture, but beneath all that, there’s a youth to the lines of her face that takes him by more surprise than it probably should.

“Drew...kept savings,” Gwen says finally, ignoring Dorothea’s quiet sound of protest. “Coin he earned from special commissions for Knights and the like.“

“Nearly everything he made went to keeping the forge running and putting food in our bellies,” Dorothea interjects quickly, and there’s a note of desperation in her voice. “So what little was left...he saved. You have to understand, he wasn’t stealing—it was his coin, by all rights, he just chose to save it in case—“

“My mother does the same,” he interrupts, because he’s the last person to confuse _saving_ with _stealing_ , and he wants to ease the frantic, pinched look on Dorothea’s face as quickly as possible. “I know there are those who think it’s against the law, that you aren’t allowed to hide any money away from the King, but I think it’s smart. Your husband made sure you would be provided for, and who can blame him for that?”

After all, if nobles and royals could do it, why not peasants? One less coin in the royal coffers would hardly register, but saving it away could help feed an entire family in a future time of need.

He sees Gwen smiling in the periphery like _I knew I could count on you._

And when Dorothea’s expression clears, all traces of hesitation gone as though that’s the exact reassurance she was looking for, he decides to let the white lie rest. His mother hasn’t kept savings—at least, not in _that_ way—ever since Kanen assaulted Matthew for doing so and terrified the whole of Ealdor into strict accordance with tax orders, but. Saying she did was the fastest way to earn Dorothea’s trust without launching into a soliloquy about his ethical principles, and that’s a trade off he’s more than willing to live with.

“Drew left us with just enough to last through the winter. But—we’ll need every copper of it and more to meet this year’s tax, which I’m sure you know is being collected in a fortnight.” Dorothea stops and bites her lip, eyeing him nervously.

The pieces slot together.

“You want a tax reprieve,” he realizes.

Even in the dim light, he catches the way Dorothea’s cheeks tinge pink. “I know it isn’t done, and I understand why—I don’t expect one, not at all. I know I’m lucky to even have this money and not be completely destitute with collection day approaching.” Merlin shudders at that. He’s heard rumors of what some collectors demand as payment from families— _wives—_ with no coin or goods to offer, and the thought of that happening to Dorothea twists something terrible in his stomach. “I just—Gwen said to tell you everything, so—that’s it. That’s everything.”

No one speaks for several moments.

“Do you think you can help, Merlin?” Gwen asks finally.

“I want to, but—how? The King doesn’t grant reprieves, Gwen, you know that,” he says helplessly, unable to meet Dorothea’s sad, weary eyes.

Either her children will starve this winter, clothes hanging off their already too-thin frames, stomachs empty while Uther’s coffers fill, or she’ll keep the money to feed them and instead find herself at the mercy of a collector—perhaps a kind one, or perhaps one just as cruel and merciless as the King he serves.

It sickens him, that these are her only options, but there’s nothing he can do. Nothing anyone can—

Oh. _Oh._

“Arthur,” he says quietly, finally understanding why Gwen called him here, why she thought he could help. He could kick himself for being so blind.

The King doesn’t grant reprieves, ever, but the Prince would. _Has_ in the past, secretly, here and there for families who truly needed it.

“I told Gwen it was foolish,” Dorothea says, and Gwen nods absently as though to confirm she did indeed say that. “He’s the Crown Prince. I know Gwen works in the citadel, but the Prince will hardly listen to a servant. And even if there’s two of you, he has no reason to... ”

Merlin barely hears the rest of it over the flurry of silent dialogue taking place between him and Gwen—

_Can I tell her?_

_No._

_Please?_

_No._

_I trust her._

_It’s still no._

The thing is that he thinks he can trust Dorothea as well. She told him about her husband’s unlawful savings—he doubts she’d pay that forward by turning around and spreading rumors about his and Arthur’s relationship. But that isn’t a decision he gets to make here, now, on his own, because Arthur has never even met Dorothea and Merlin refuses to take away Arthur’s right to have a say in who knows about them.

“I’m Arthur’s manservant, Dorothea, which means I have his ear,” he says, and something eases in his chest when Gwen simply smiles, acceptant—her eyes are crinkled and kind, as always, and he feels a rush of affection for his first friend in Camelot. “I’ll speak to him on your behalf.”

“You’re his—manservant?” Dorothea looks shocked, and he spares a moment to feel almost equally shocked that someone in Camelot hasn’t heard of his position in the royal household. It’s strangely heartening to realize she had no idea of his influence on a particular prattish Pendragon when telling her story. “I didn’t realize you even knew the Prince.”

“We’re...well-acquainted,” he manages to say with a straight face, pointedly ignoring the way Gwen bites her lip and coughs to hide a laugh. “If I asked, I think he would listen.”

The faint, almost desperate hope on Dorothea’s face is all the motivation he needs.

Which is how, an hour later, he stands in Arthur’s chambers, heart hammering in his throat and waiting for a decision.

“And you vouch for this woman?”

“Yes, sire.”

Arthur nods, heaves a sigh, rubs a hand across his face, turns to the window. Hope flutters in Merlin’s chest. He knows these signs.

“I will grant her a reprieve.”

“Yes! Thank you, Arthur, I know she’ll definitely appreciate it, thank—“

“Merlin.” He quiets immediately at the weight in Arthur’s voice. “You need to know that—I know many in Camelot suffer each year. And as much as I would like to help all of them, waive their tax or grant them a job or whatever they may need, I can’t. Because if I did, there would be no money to pay the Knights that keep those same citizens safe, or pave the roads that take them home.”

“I know that, but—,” he starts automatically, almost petulantly, but stops short of finishing the thought because he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Arthur this serious, and that more than anything tells him to _shut up and listen_.

Sure enough, Arthur continues as though he’s hardly spoken. “One day as King, I’ll be responsible for the whole of Camelot. I’ll issue a fair tax and grant reprieves from it as needed, but—I know I can only grant so many before the loss to our coffers from protecting the welfare of individual families means I don’t have the funds to protect the welfare of the Kingdom. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

It’s a heady thing, responsibility. He’s wrestled with it since arriving in Camelot and hearing of his destiny, and it’s easy to forget, sometimes, that Arthur bears a weight on his shoulders too. “Arthur—“

“I know you speak up for the common folk. It’s one of the things I lo—I’ve come to depend on,” Arthur amends hastily, and Merlin’s heart nearly thuds to a stop at the almost-slip. “My Father puts the Kingdom, the idea of it, over everything, even the very people _living_ in that Kingdom. That’s not what—that’s not how I want to be _,_ as King. I want to be more than just—I want to _do_ more, for the people.”

Arthur never speaks about it, but Merlin knows he spends a lot of time thinking about the type of King he wants to be, the type of Camelot he wants to build. There’s something immensely gratifying about hearing those thoughts aloud and realizing, yet again, how truly dedicated Arthur is to fulfilling the duty thrust upon him.

His love for Camelot has always been his most redeeming quality. Once, it might even have been the only one, though they’ve come a long way since then.

“If you come to me asking for something like this again, I won’t refuse you. I _can’t_.” Arthur chokes out a laugh, but it’s a small, pained thing. “Do you understand, Merlin?”

And he does. _Gods,_ Merlin finally hears it loud and clear, an admission too heavy to put into words but all the more sincere for it—Arthur knows he‘s responsible for the forest, but he wants Merlin to help him see the trees, too.

“Yes,” he replies, and sees the way Arthur’s whole body relaxes at that, as though he was truly afraid of the answer. “Yes, I understand, and yes, _of course_ I’ll do it. You know you never have to ask me for that.”

It’s true. In all honesty, it would probably be harder for him _not_ to constantly push Arthur to do little things like this tax reprieve to help the people of Camelot, to sometimes look past the good of the Kingdom and focus on the good of the few.

But he knows what it must have cost Arthur to lay himself bare like that and ask for help—especially to ask for help with _ruling_ , something he’s always considered his own burden to bear—so Merlin opens his mouth to try and lighten the mood.

Except then Arthur finally turns, a trace of a smile on his lips but still unsure, a little off-balance, so Merlin swallows away the joke and says instead, “I told you before, you’re destined to be the greatest King that Albion has ever known. And I will be at your side every step of the way, however you need, to help make that happen.”

A beat.

Then Arthur takes three strides forward and meets his lips for a bruising kiss. Merlin melts into it, his thoughts scattering like dust in the wind, until there’s nothing left but this—the nape of Arthur’s neck beneath his fingers, a warm breath ghosting over the bridge of his nose, those blue eyes shining as their foreheads touch.

It’s _please_ and _thank you_ and _I love you_ and a little bit of everything else they’ve never needed words to say.


	5. 1x07, The Gates of Avalon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin is used to the stocks. Still, being shackled, put on display, and pelted with fruits and vegetables for three days in a row takes its toll.
> 
> Inspired by Merlin’s repeated trips to the stocks in this episode and how (if I remember correctly) he’s never put in them again.

_Splat_.

A tomato explodes across his cheek, soon followed by another one and another. Juice dribbles down the side of his face, clinging to the underside of his chin for a few moments before sliding onto the wood slat of the stocks.

Merlin resists the urge to scowl or flinch or grimace, squashes any thought of reacting at all. He feels uncomfortably like a little boy learning how to feed himself for the first time, sloppy and messy as the food goes everywhere but his mouth, but he’s long since learned the first rule of the stocks—never show weakness. The public prey on that, especially the children, and that’s when the experience turns into a true punishment.

Joking around with the vegetable-pelters, turning the whole thing into a game—that’s how you get through it with any dignity left.

So Merlin smiles, acts unbothered, forces the murmured rumors of his transgressions to roll off his shoulders as easily as the juice rolls down his face, pretends not to hear the mocking laughs of the children—and tries to be grateful for how well the chunks of berry stuck to his cheeks hide the way they flame red every time someone hisses, “Filthy” in his direction.

It’s not humiliating unless he lets it be. It’s _not_.

Merlin reminds himself of that every few minutes, like maybe repeating the sentiment enough will make it feel like truth.

It’s _not_ humiliating.

Then he sees a girl examining a rock the size of his fist a few paces away, and something begins to churn frantically in his stomach. There’s a split second where he considers whether the risk of revealing himself as a sorcerer would be worth magicking the rock far away from his face, but before he can go too far down that path, she’s called away by her father, rock thankfully taken with her.

The bruise that would have left...

Merlin closes his eyes and exhales, dropping his head until the tip of his chin hits the wood. Judging by the throb in his shoulders—constant but light, not quite unbearable yet—there’s probably another hour or two to go.

Most of the vegetables don’t hurt his skin, only his pride—the berries hardly even feel solid on impact, just cold and then slimy as they explode. There are rules against using rocks for that very reason, but only the conscience of the public is there to enforce them.

Merlin would know. After his second consecutive day in the stocks, he spent several hours in the library reading all about them and the various regulations that supposedly govern their use.

Today is the third consecutive day.

But it’s worth it, all things considered, because Arthur is currently safe in his chambers, not-drowned and decidedly alive; that assurance alone gives him the strength to put on a smile and boldly meet the eyes of the next man marching up to him, potato in hand.

He hates when they throw potatoes.

Except some higher power must be watching over him, because the potato just barely brushes the top of his hair before falling harmlessly to the ground behind him, missing his face entirely.

Merlin lets out another long breath and tries not to look as relieved as he feels, lest the man try again.

Time ticks slowly forward after that, dragging the way it always does when he’s desperate for it to go faster. Hunger gnaws at his stomach, a monster with claws that only grow sharper each minute, and the irony isn’t lost on him—so much food in the immediate vicinity, no way to eat it.

There’s only about a half hour left, by his count, when someone screams, “Filthy!”, someone whose voice is too high and shrill to be more than eight years old, and it all tips over the edge into too much.

The ache in his shoulders flares to near-excruciating, a pulsing, white-hot pain that feels almost like a dagger digging into his flesh. The hunger turns into a fully-grown beast, claws unrelenting and sharp as a sword, tearing his insides to shreds one pang at a time. Someone laughs in the periphery, loud, young, spiteful, and the sound grates on his ears, pulling a well of shame from somewhere deep within him that burns against the back of his throat.

And there’s a thought running around in his head that won’t be quelled— _what if?_ What if the girl had thrown the rock? What if the man’s aim had been true?

He closes his eyes as soon as he feels a telltale heat prickling at the corners. The absolute last thing he can afford to do now is shed a tear.

It’s _not_ humiliating.

 _Let me out_ , Merlin thinks weakly, and it’s not the first time that thought has flittered across his mind, but it _is_ the first time in all his trips to the stocks that he’s allowed it to fully take shape.

That’s when Merlin knows he has lost.

Just as he knows showing weakness while dangled on the slat is a recipe for trouble, Merlin has always known that this thought cannot be _un_ thought once tangibly formulated. _Let me out_. It cannot be ignored. _Let me out._ It cannot be glossed over with plastered smiles and bravado and deep breaths, pushed down and hidden away until he’s back safe in Gaius’s chambers.

 _Let me out_.

From then every berry feels like a stone, every twitch of his shoulder like a serrated knife twisting ever deeper, every intrusive stare an army of ants crawling over his skin, every trickle of juice thick and sticky and marking him like an animal, every ray of the evening sun a hot-iron brand against the sweat dripping down his back. His head is bowed against the wood to lessen the pressure on his shoulders just a fraction, his jaw is clenched with the force of everything he can’t risk saying, his hands are curled into fists in an effort to hold on just a little while longer—but it isn’t enough.

 _Someone, please, let me out_.

* * *

Never in his life has Merlin been more grateful for Gaius than when a surly-looking junior guard finally releases him from the shackles and unceremoniously dumps him outside the physician’s chambers.

“Hope I don’t see you again tomorrow,” the guard snickers, though the barely-restrained glee in his voice suggests otherwise. “And the King wants you in the hall before sundown.”

Probably to sack him once and for all.

But Merlin merely slumps against the wall and nods, too sore to move, holding his tongue until the guard disappears out of view.

“Gaius?” His voice comes out as a rasp, parched.

“Gods above, Merlin!” Gaius steps through the doorway and lifts him to his feet, bearing most of his weight as they shuffle slowly inside. “What happened?”

“Shoulders,” Merlin grits out, gingerly lowering himself onto the stool next to Gaius’s workbench, and knows he doesn’t need to say any more. They’ve had far too many townsfolk sit in this exact same stool, hunched over and grimacing, and make the same complaint over the past few months.

“Can you take your tunic off?” Gaius’s body obscures his view of the table, but Merlin hears the telltale clatter of ingredients being ground into a salve.

He tries lifting his arms, but immediately groans when the movement sends a jolt of pure agony all the way across his back from the dip of one shoulder to the rise of the other.

Gaius freezes at the sound, just for a moment, before continuing his salve preparation as though nothing happened.

Merlin is grateful.

He’s been watched and observed and examined by prying eyes for far too long today. The thought of having to measure up under anyone’s gaze, even Gaius’s, for even another second, twists something sour in his gut.

After another aborted effort to raise his arms, Merlin grits his teeth and reminds himself that at least sewing isn’t as bad as mucking out the stables. “You’ll have to cut it off.” He tries not to imagine the hours of needlework it’ll take to mend the tunic up again.

In any case, the thought of future work pales in comparison to the current pain. “Gaius...” he says quietly, swallowing back a curse.

“Just another minute, Merlin.” His voice is kind, apologetic. “The herbs need to settle for the salve to be effective.”

“Mm.” He knows that, has delivered the same line to more than one aching knight in the past, but it’s hard to grasp any coherent thoughts beyond white-hot _pain_ at the moment. “And I’ve an audience with the King soon.”

“Uther will have to wait.” Gaius turns around, salve in hand, and Merlin resists the urge to hide from his piercing gaze as it roams over him. It’s just Gaius. Doing his duty as a physician, cataloging his injuries. What he sees must be about as terrible as Merlin feels, because _both_ wizened eyebrows shoot up. “You look terrible.”

There isn’t an ounce of humor to the words.

“I _feel_ terrible,” he agrees, keeping still as Gaius cuts away part of his tunic, but the cloth clings to him, stuck fast with sweat, until Gaius pulls it off with a frustrated grumble. Cool air immediately hits his exposed skin like a blessing. “I don’t know why, but today it got...really bad.”

He can’t voice the right words to describe how he felt up there—exposed, dirty, helpless, humiliated—but Gaius seems to understand anyway.

“Despite their common use, I’ve long since believed the stocks are the cruelest form of punishment,” Gaius says, and something about hearing that familiar tone, measured and calm—like Merlin isn’t sitting in front of him caked in crusted juice and mud and sweat, too weak to move—sets Merlin at ease. This is Gaius. There is no one in the world, save his mother, who he trusts more. “To be placed at the mercy of the public, shamed before all who know you...I find it an unnecessary measure.”

“Honestly, I think I’d rather be thrown in the dungeons.” His voice breaks halfway through, dry and cracked from too many hours without water.

Then Gaius rubs the first bit of salve onto his shoulder and Merlin can’t help the relieved moan that escapes him as the burn starts dying down to a dull ache. “Are you sure you aren’t using magic, Gaius? That’s incredible.”

“Just science, Merlin. Applying the salve regularly for a few days should minimize the pain and ensure you recover speedily.”

“Ah, yes. All healed and ready to do chores for Arthur from dawn to dusk,” he snaps, though there’s no real heat behind it. An Arthur who can order him around is an Arthur who is alive, and that’s more than Merlin thought he’d get when he waded into the lake for Arthur’s sinking body.

Before Gaius can do more than tut in response, the sound of fast, heavy footsteps in the distance catches Merlin’s attention.

He knows that sound.

Sure enough—

“MERLIN!”

Despite expecting it, he still jumps in his chair. “Gaius—”

Merlin isn’t sure what he was planning to say, isn’t sure if he wants Arthur to see him like this or not, isn’t sure what would be worse, but Gaius doesn’t wait to hear any of it. The physician strides briskly to the doorway just as Arthur appears in it, obstructing the Prince’s view into the room as best he can, and asks, “What can I do for you, sire?”

Merlin doesn’t think he’s imagining the harsh bite in Gaius’s normally-soft voice.

Arthur must hear it, too, because his tone is uncharacteristically uncertain. “I’m looking for Merlin, Gaius. My father demands his presence in the throne room.”

“May I ask what the King wants with him?”

There’s a brief pause. “Nothing good.”

Merlin’s heart races, each beat thudding between his ears loud enough that he nearly misses Gaius’s next words.

“—weakened and injured from his time in stocks. You can tell your father that the Court Physician deems him in no fit state to have an audience with the King.”

“Gaius—”

“And if you wish to press this issue, it is me you will answer to!” Gaius’s voice cracks through the air, sharp as a whip.

There’s a long, pregnant pause during which Merlin hardly breathes, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Arthur could have Gaius thrown in the dungeons for speaking to him like that, or just run him through with his sword if he wanted. Nobody would stop the Prince.

And in the state he’s in, Merlin doesn’t think _he_ could either, magic or not.

But nothing of the sort happens.

Arthur only sounds calm, and even more uncertain, when he speaks. “I did not mean to question you, Gaius, I—is Merlin alright?”

“I certainly hope he will be.”

The _for your sake_ is unsaid, but absolutely clear. It hangs between then, a thinly-veiled insubordination that seems to choke all the air out of the room, until Merlin hears a quiet “Right”, followed by the sound of footsteps receding.

As soon as the patter of Arthur’s boots can no longer be heard, Gaius shuts and bolts the door with a sense of finality.

* * *

“I can’t believe you did that! He could be going to Uther right now to claim you were—Uther would have your head for that!” Merlin doesn’t bother masking his panic, even as each word grates against his dry throat.

“I have known Arthur his entire life. He is many things, but has never been willfully cruel.” Gaius continues applying salve, apparently calm as ever, and Merlin reluctantly drops the issue.

Once Gaius finishes and moves on to the bruising around his wrists, Merlin flexes his shoulders lightly as a test, pleased when there’s only a twinge of pain in response. That’s much better.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

Merlin’s eyes snap up. Who now?

“Gaius? I’ve brought water.” Even muffled through the wood, Arthur’s voice sounds hesitant and very, very small, so different from his usual brash confidence.

But Gaius, bless him, merely looks at Merlin with raised eyebrows, not making any move toward the door. _Your decision_ , he says without words.

Merlin thinks about it for only a moment before nodding. _Let him in._ He’s not particularly interested in seeing Arthur, but with the way his throat chafes and scratches with every swallow, water is a godsend, no matter who’s bringing it.

It’s only after Arthur steps inside that he remembers he’s still covered in grime and fruit juice and chunks of tomato.

Merlin waits for a snide comment— _‘wow, Merlin, did you bathe in a drainage pipe?’_ —but Arthur is strangely silent as he walks forward and stretches out a waterskin, eyes unreadable. They linger on the salve coating Merlin’s wrists and the mottled bruising beneath; Merlin does his best not to shy away.

The water is cold when he takes the first sip, blissfully cold, and he wonders if Arthur might have some magic of his own, to produce such a thing in the middle of a Camelot summer. He gulps half of it down greedily before realizing that this is most likely Arthur’s personally-chilled waterskin, and draining it all would probably lead to another trip to the stocks.

Still, it takes nearly every ounce of his willpower to pause, put it down, and take a breath.

“It’s cold. The water.” Merlin can’t quite keep a mixture of surprise and gratitude out of his voice. Even Gaius looks surprised at that.

But Arthur merely snorts, scoffing, “Excellent observation there, _Mer_ lin. Does anything get past you?”

And Merlin can’t help but smile because this, at least, is familiar. “Well, potatoes, apparently. Didn’t get hit with a single one today.”

He expects a sharp ‘ _I’m sure we could remedy that’,_ or at least a pointed look of scorn in response. Instead, Arthur’s eyes darken and flicker again to his wrists.

“Is there anything else you need, Gaius?” he asks finally—brusque, almost too brusque, like there’s something else he’s trying to mask—and Merlin can’t help but wonder.

_Are you worried about me, Arthur?_

“Time. I meant what I said, sire. Merlin is in no state to see the King.”

He thinks about standing in the stocks again tomorrow for having neglected a direct summons from Uther, and cold dread trickles down his spine. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine, I can—”

He can walk to the throne room and look meek in front of Uther for ten minutes. After spending the day in the stocks, after having to walk from the stocks to Gaius’s chambers with every step like wading through quicksand, this should be a piece of cake.

As Merlin tries to stand, however, the room spins around him. It wasn’t like that before—was it? “I—”

“Whoa, Merlin!”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!”

“You are most certainly not fine! You are weak, dehydrated, and in pain—you need to rest!”

“Gaius—”

He’s instantly quieted by the mother of all eyebrow raises. “Okay. Okay, _resting_.”

With the full force of Gaius’s stare directed straight at him, it takes Merlin another second to realize that while the room is no longer spinning, the only reason he hasn’t already hit the floor is that Arthur’s hands are gripping his upper arms, bracing him up. They form warm patches on his skin, even through the fabric of his tunic, but it’s the first time all day that heat hasn’t _burned_.

Merlin tries not to think about what that might mean.

“Sit,” Gaius commands, and he does.

Arthur looks everywhere but Merlin’s face as he lets go and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his robe. But the ghosts of his hands, large and warm, linger on Merlin’s skin.

“My father is furious with Merlin, and by virtue of that, me as well. He will not listen to a word I have to say, if I try to tell him Merlin cannot heed his summons.”

Gaius shakes his head. “I still need to bandage his injuries and draw a bath. Then Merlin needs to eat and rest. I will not have him injuring himself even worse—”

“Or perhaps _you_ could talk to my father.”

“Sire?” Gaius and Merlin ask in tandem.

“Yes.” Arthur nods, almost to himself. “I think if it came from you, my father would grant Merlin a respite. He holds you in high esteem, and in any case, even the King cannot sequester an injured man from the Court Physician.”

A beat.

“And what of Merlin?”

Arthur shrugs. “I have tended to many a Knight on the battlefield, Gaius. I know how to dress an injury.”

It’s several moments before Gaius nods. “Very well. I will speak with the King, then.”

The implications of what is about to happen don’t fully hit him until Gaius is well out the door and Arthur stands in front of him with a strip of bandages. He blames his slow uptake on exhaustion.

“You—you’re actually—”

“Yes, _Mer_ lin. Can’t have you too injured to do your chores tomorrow, can we?”

“Right.”

Arthur then kneels before him—there’s an image that Merlin never expected to see—and touches the edge of his wrist. The question, though unspoken, is clear.

Merlin can’t find the words. “I’m fine,” he deflects instead of answering, and jerks his head toward the bandage roll. “Are you sure you know what to do with that?”

“As I said, Merlin, I’ve bandaged my Knights before. If my technique was good enough for them, it’ll be more than good enough for you.”

It turns out that Arthur _is_ indeed experienced, or at least good at faking it. He swathes both of Merlin’s wrists and the section of his upper back coated in salve within minutes, fingers quick and confident. Merlin hisses when Arthur tightens the bandage around his left wrist and Arthur smooths a thumb over it in apology, proceeding to wrap the bandage around his right just a little looser.

“Anywhere else?” Arthur asks once everything is wrapped. It’s a tone Merlin isn’t used to from him—calm, commanding, focused—and for a moment, he sees the makings of a King standing before him instead of just a man.

“That’s all, I think.”

“Good. You’re still filthy, though, you need a bath.”

Merlin flinches. _Filthy_. The jeers echo in his ears, harsh and jarring, a child and a man and a woman all repeating it in chorus. _Filthy!_

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks.

He shakes himself out of it. “I’m fine. I’m fine, I appreciate you bandaging me up. I’m sure Gaius will be back soon for anything else.”

“Merlin.” Arthur is still kneeling before him, and his voice is quiet, almost gentle.

It takes another minute, but maybe that’s what breaks his resolve.

“That’s what they said,” he whispers finally. “Filthy.” The word comes out as barely more than an exhaled breath.

Arthur’s eyes widen when it seems to finally click and Merlin looks away, heat rising in his cheeks.

“You’re filthy, but you are not _filthy_ ,” Arthur half-growls, and Merlin doesn’t know how he hears a distinction between the two things, but he does, and something loosens in his chest.

“I could use a bath,” he says eventually with forced lightness, if only to dispel the heaviness in the air.

Something swirls in Arthur’s eyes that he can’t put a name on, but Arthur goes along with the redirection, rising to his feet. “You can bathe in my chambers. I can’t say the bath will still be hot, but at least it’s already drawn.”

“Wait, you’re—are you serious?”

Arthur stares at him, unblinking.

“You look serious.”

Still staring.

“Okay, got it. Serious.” He smiles without meaning to.

The corner of Arthur’s lip twitches. “Can you walk, or do I have to carry you like a girl?”

* * *

Gaius would have his head if he got the bandages wet, so a servant comes in to help wash him. She doesn’t balk at all when she enters the room and sees the state he’s in, which is a relief. When Arthur issues her a stern look that draws little more than a bland smile out of her, Merlin can’t help but like the girl instantly.

“I’m Maira,” she says, and that’s that.

The whole thing is not as strange as Merlin thought it would be—Maira is efficient and professional about it, clearly used to doing this—and Arthur’s bathtub, as he suspected it would be, is heavenly. The water is just the right side of lukewarm and more than anything, it’s clean.

Stepping out of the bath into a different tunic and trousers, he feels clean, too. It’s a good feeling.

“Thank you, Maira.”

She’s gone with a dip of her head and a little smile.

Arthur comes in immediately afterward, expression pinched in a scowl. “Sit, Merlin. Gaius said you should rest.”

Unsure where else to sit, he gingerly lowers himself into one of the chairs around Arthur’s dining table, noticing there’s already a platter of food laid out. He would assume it‘s for Arthur, but Arthur shows no signs of heading toward it, instead taking his usual seat behind his writing table.

“I’m planning to rest, tonight. But Gaius’s salve is—” He swallows down the word _magical_. “It’s a wonder. I should be fine by tomorrow.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” The scowl loosens just a fraction. “Eat.”

He does. It’s just bread and soup, but the food instantly settles in his belly, warm, quelling the hunger that’s been tormenting him for hours, and Merlin devours the plate in minutes.

“Gaius will be looking for me—” he starts, making to rise out of the chair when he’s finished, but stops when Arthur levels him with a inscrutable look.

“Stay.”

“Um. Okay.”

Neither of them speak for a while after that. The only sound in the room is the light, almost hypnotic scratching of Arthur’s quill against a scroll.

Eventually, Merlin can’t take it. “Have you ever been in the stocks?” he asks, for lack of a better conversation topic.

There’s no answer. Several minutes pass in a slightly strained silence, until Merlin is sure Arthur doesn’t plan to respond at all, before he says quietly, “Once. A very long time ago.”

“What for?” He’s surprised to find no glee in the thought that Arthur, too, has experienced this particular humiliation.

“Don’t remember,” Arthur says flatly, though Merlin knows him well enough to hear the lie. He doesn’t push.

Another silence stretches on.

This time, Arthur is the one to break it. “How did this happen, Merlin?”

“What?”

Arthur sets down his quill with a _clink_. “You’ve...been in the stocks before.” Merlin doesn’t think he’s imagining the hint of guilt in Arthur’s voice. “But you’ve never been like this before. Have—have you?”

“No.” And that’s true. It’s never been this bad. He hates the stocks, always has, but he can usually get through them without too much trouble. Today... “I don’t like the stocks, obviously, but usually it’s okay.”

“And today?”

Merlin meets Arthur’s eyes, ready to deflect, but there’s something in them, something intense and open and genuinely curious, and he finds the truth tumbling out. “It was awful. All of it, from the very first moment. I don’t know why, maybe because it was the third day in a row, but I—” he shakes his head.

People throw all sorts of things at those in the stocks, fruits and vegetables and verbal abuse, but it’s never stung before today. Never hit deeper than skin before today.

“You said they called you—they called you—”

“Filthy.” He spits the word the way they did, like an insult aimed at an animal. “You can say it, you know. I’m not going to break.”

“Right.” Arthur looks away, jaw working uncomfortably for several moments, before turning his gaze back on Merlin’s. The scowl is still there, but it’s tempered by something...softer. “ _I_ asked you to lie to the King. For me.”

“Sire?”

Arthur opens his mouth but either can’t or won’t say more yet—there’s really no need, as they both understand the chain of events that led to this moment, even if Arthur’s picture is a little incomplete. But to his credit, Arthur’s eyes continue to meet his unflinchingly, a steely determination in them that Merlin recognizes from the night before he fought Valiant.

“This is my doing.” It’s that voice again, the one of a King—this time weighed down with guilt and responsibility.

“It’s not your fault.” After the many months he’s spent by Arthur’s side, Merlin is sure in his belief that Arthur would never have sent him to the stocks if he knew this would be the result. And in any case, it was Uther, not Arthur, who repeatedly assigned him to that particular punishment.

But Arthur’s scowl only deepens.

“Get some rest, Merlin,” he says finally, picking up his quill again. “Or Gaius will have my head.”

“Thank you. For the—” Merlin nods toward the bath and touches the empty food platter with his well-wrapped wrist. “I know you didn’t have to do all this.”

“Yes, I did.”

Something warm flares in his chest that Merlin can’t name. “I’ll see you in the morning then, sire.” He stands from the chair and takes a few steps toward the door. It’s much easier to walk, now that the salve has drained most of his pain and every step doesn’t dislodge dried mud and juice.

“Merlin.”

He stops, turns. “Sire?”

“Gaius wouldn’t want you walking all the way back to his chambers,” Arthur says casually, though his eyes are piercing. They flicker toward the bed, _Arthur’s_ bed, large and soft and entirely off-limits to servants like Merlin.

Of that, Merlin is sure. Or thought he was sure.

“I’ll be fine. It’s not a long walk.” Several corridors and a staircase are involved, but he can manage.

Except the corners of Arthur’s mouth are curled tight and the set of his shoulders is stiff and the line between his brows is creased—it hits him that maybe Arthur is offering for his own sake as much as Merlin’s.

Arthur’s bed would certainly be more comfortable than the lump he graciously calls a mattress back in Gaius’s chambers.

“Are you sure?”

“What is it with you questioning me today? I never say anything unless I am sure.”

He can’t help the grin that tugs at his lips. “Well, sire, you didn’t actually _say_ anything, just sort of implied—” Arthur glares. “Right. Shutting up.”

“If you snore, I’ll toss you out the window.”

Merlin smothers a laugh.

It should be strange, sleeping in Arthur’s bed in Arthur’s room, with Arthur no more than ten paces away, but somehow, it’s not. Merely comfortable, the window open to let in the cooling night breeze, Arthur’s mattress as fluffy as a cloud, the scratching of Arthur’s quill a steady rhythm that lulls him to sleep.

And sleep he does, more soundly than Merlin ever thought possible.


End file.
